


Rise Above It (Spread Your Wings)

by njw, salazarastark (niewanyin), Silver_Snow_77



Series: A Journey of Personal Discovery Through Social Isolation [13]
Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, DCU
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Angst with a Happy Ending, BAMF Tim Drake, Batkids Age Reversal, Dragon Tim Drake, Family Bonding, Found Family, Gen, Magical Battles, Presumed character death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-13
Updated: 2020-06-13
Packaged: 2021-03-03 20:27:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,168
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24691525
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/njw/pseuds/njw, https://archiveofourown.org/users/niewanyin/pseuds/salazarastark, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Silver_Snow_77/pseuds/Silver_Snow_77
Summary: The dark fire twists and rises, orienting on the Gotham walls. It seems to be aimed for a point right in front of the battlements where Bruce and Damian stand, defenseless while casting their own spell. The black flames blast forward, closing in on the closest thing to a family Tim has left.Likehell.Tim knows exactly what he needs to do. Just as the black, corrupt hellfire approaches the village walls, he drops into a dive, closing his wings tightly around his body to plummet faster. He’s got this—he’s so close—As he falls, what sounds strangely like grief-stricken cries of denial in his father’s and brother’s voices reach his ears, but that’s not possible. He must be mistaken. As the burning, excruciating balefire surrounds him, burning the very tears from his eyes, Tim’s heart twists in painful satisfaction. Now the others will be able to save Gotham and defeat Ra’s.I did it, Bruce. Even if you never really wanted me to be part of your family, I hope… I made you proud.
Relationships: Bruce Wayne & Damian Wayne, Tim Drake & Bruce Wayne, Tim Drake & Damian Wayne, Tim Drake & Dick Grayson & Jason Todd & Bruce Wayne & Damian Wayne
Series: A Journey of Personal Discovery Through Social Isolation [13]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1406953
Comments: 45
Kudos: 621





	Rise Above It (Spread Your Wings)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [vellaphoria](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vellaphoria/gifts).



> Happy extremely late birthday, Vell! We hope you enjoy this story. Hopefully it’s worth the wait!

Lightning shatters the sullen sky, illuminating the rough, dingy cobbled streets of Gotham for an instant before the village is once again engulfed by darkness. It’s long enough for Tim to map the battlefield in his mind’s eye. His body is already moving into position to back Bruce up even as the air tingles with magic, gathering for the warmage’s next devastatingly potent spell.

Damian is fighting at his father’s side, the young half-demon warmage calling down his own lightning to target the massed enemies who surround Gotham’s walls. His lightning bolts—sickly green in contrast to Bruce’s bright white—seem focused on one particular area.

Ra’s.

Even as Tim breaks into a run, mentally cursing the distant patrol Bruce insisted he fly over the neighboring town of Metropolis on tonight of all nights, his mind is racing faster yet. He formulates and dismisses plan after plan, tallying what he sees and forming estimates of the enemies’ numbers. The results are dismal. There is a strong chance that Ra’s al Ghul and his armies will overwhelm them. Powerful or not, Bruce is just one man, with only two boys of fifteen and seventeen seasons to support him.

“Tim!” Bruce barks, not taking his eyes off of the massed enemies as his deep voice thunders over the din. _“Inferno!”_

Tim doesn’t break stride at the command, not even when Damian throws a scornful look over his shoulder and deliberately shoves his boot into his path with a vicious sneer. “Useless _pretender.”_

Jumping lightly into the air to avoid tripping over his reluctant foster brother’s extended foot, Tim rises above it all. Exhilaration and power ripple through him as he releases his transformation. He spreads his vast red and gold wings, roars a thrilling challenge, and _soars._

Behind and below him, he can still make out Damian’s voice as he viciously mutters, “Ridiculous imposter. Once he embarrasses himself tonight, perhaps Father will finally realize we would be better served without him. As though he could ever need any but his _true_ son, let alone a base, idiotic creature like _that.”_

Sometimes, Tim wishes his hearing weren’t quite so sensitive.

Bruce’s voice cuts him off, although as usual he gives no acknowledgment that he heard the insults. “Damian, use the cover when Tim flames to gather power, then combine with me to cast stasis and paralysis over the entire field. We need to stop these armies before they overwhelm the town’s shields _.”_

To Tim’s relief, Bruce’s command directs Damian’s attention back to the battle and away from himself.

Tim sometimes wonders what Bruce was thinking when he made the decision to foster an orphaned dragonborn like him. He can’t help but consider the likelihood that the man simply noticed his aptitude and added him to his family the same way he’d add a particularly useful tool or spell to his arsenal.

Of course, Bruce hadn’t _known_ he had an older blood son of his own when he took Tim in, let alone one born of Ra’s al Ghul’s demonic daughter. Damian was raised steeped in the prejudices of his evil, immortal grandfather. He has never been an easy or accepting brother, if Tim can even presume to call him that.

To Ra’s and his ilk, a dragon—even a half-human one like Tim—is merely a creature, something to be hunted and possessed. Under the circumstances, he supposes he should consider himself lucky that his older ‘brother’ has merely confined himself to verbal cuts and digs, and the occasional ‘accident’ during sparring that always ends with Tim injured and Damian sneering down at him like he’s trash.

Tim accepted his position in this family a long time ago, though, so the constant stream of insults and belittlement barely even stings at this point.

He knows his place.

Right now, his role is to cover the battlefield in flames and wreak as much havoc as possible to give the others time to build up sufficient power for their most potent, devastating spells. It’s the only way to save Gotham.

Tim grins as he rises high over the massed armies, knowing the expression looks very different in this form. He grins wider, enjoying the fact that all the enemies will see is his dagger-like teeth. This part is always fun.

He inhales, huge lungs filling like tremendous bellows, and releases it in an immense stream of crackling, raging flames. Turning his head slowly to direct the fire and cover the entire field of battle from east to west, he rapidly transforms the orderly formations into a hellish inferno.

Far below, Tim can see the League of Assassins mages scrambling, pouring more power into their defensive shields to protect their living armies. The lich and demonic forces just continue attacking, barely noticing the flames, but it’s enough to pause the tide.

Behind him, he can hear Bruce and Damian beginning to chant softly together. They probably only need five more minutes for their spell to reach full power.

Tim can give them that. He has to.

So of course, that’s the moment Ra’s al Ghul channels the full powers of hell and begins to unleash them on Gotham’s battered shields. Seething black flames surround the immortal, who is wearing a demonic smile befitting his true origins as he mutters his arcane summoning. Tim’s superior vision allows him to see the hellborn’s hands slashing rapidly through the figures of the spell.

The dark fire twists and rises, orienting on the Gotham walls. It seems to be aimed for a point right in front of the battlements where Bruce and Damian stand, defenseless while casting their own spell. The black flames pause for a moment, seemingly gathering strength, and then blast forward, closing in on the closest thing to a family Tim has left.

Like _hell._

Tim knows exactly what he needs to do. Just as the black, corrupt hellfire approaches the village walls, he drops into a dive, closing his wings tightly around his body to plummet faster. He’s got this—he’s so _close—_

As he falls, what sounds strangely like grief-stricken cries of denial in his father’s and brother’s voices reach his ears. He must be mistaken, though. Bruce is too focused on the spell to even notice Tim. Damian would sooner celebrate his death than attempt to stop it, let alone lament it.

Still, even as the burning, excruciating balefire surrounds him, burning the very tears from his eyes, Tim’s heart twists in painful satisfaction. He’s done it. The others will be able to save Gotham and defeat Ra’s. 

_I did it, Bruce. Even if you never really wanted me to be part of your family, I hope… I made you proud._

* * *

Damian stares numbly at the bo-staff in his hands. He had picked it up automatically when he spotted it leaning in a corner of the training room, a curse against Drake’s slovenly habits rolling off his tongue as he moved to put it away. It was only when he spotted the fine layer of dust built up on the tool that he remembered.

Drake is _gone._

_I thought this was what I wanted—how could I have been so terribly wrong?_

His vision blurs as he stares at the bo-staff. He squeezes his eyes shut and takes a deep breath, admonishing himself for his tears. He is the blood child of Bruce Wayne and Talia al-Ghul—the weakness of such emotions should not flow through his blood. He knows what he owes to his birth. At the moment, however, maintaining a stoic facade is something much easier said than done.

Up until quite recently, he believed that he did not care at all for Timothy Drake, the lowly dragonborn taken in by his father a decade ago, during the time when Damian was still living and training with his mother and grandfather. It didn’t help matters that his father clearly preferred Drake.

Drake was the child he was actually able to raise, after all. And oh, how that burned. Every comment that Damian made to cut at Drake’s skin had been met by his father’s harsh words each night. Damian took the constant recriminations as evidence that his father condemned him for not treating his favored child appropriately. He could never understand why his father failed to acknowledge his obvious superiority to Drake, as the eldest and his only blood child if for no other reason.

Perhaps the secret suspicion that Drake had won the contest before Damian even arrived on the scene was the true source of his resentment and antipathy.

He is beginning to realize that his father never saw it that way. The epiphany has been slow in coming—far too late, in fact—but Damian can’t help but think that he has perhaps spent the past five years blinded by his own pride.

He opens his eyes, but the tears are still there. His face contorts as he tries to suppress his emotional response, but it’s futile. One sob slides out and then another and another. Before Damian knows it, he’s on his knees, clutching the bo-staff to his chest like he imagines a frightened child would clutch a stuffed animal, and sobbing his heart out.

A hand lands on his shoulder, but not even the strong grip of his father is enough to bring him back to a calmer emotional state. If anything, it makes it worse, his mind for some gods-forsaken reason taking that as permission to sob harder. He clenches his jaw, fighting desperately for control. If his grandfather had ever caught him in such an unseemly display, he would have been beaten for hours—

Panic causes his breathing to speed up as he fights back the surge of painful memories, too distraught for rational thought to remind him his father would never punish him like that. 

A moment later, a thump at his side causes Damian to turn, his wet eyes wide. His father is on his knees as well, circling him with his strong arms and tucking Damian’s head beneath his chin as though he were a child. He blinks in shock when he feels the patter of tears in his hair as his father lets out his own grief over losing his first child, his youngest son.

Damian’s brother. How he wishes he had come to that realization before it was too late.

They don’t speak, but somehow it feels as though they are able to reach an understanding anyway.

* * *

Dra—no, _Timothy_ liked to do charity when he could. He used to donate both time and funds to orphanages, much like the one in which he was found. He had a habit of visiting the children there in whatever spare moments he was able to carve out of his busy schedule, bringing bundles of clothes and books and stuffed animals for the little ones to hold and treasure. He worked hard to match children with parents in the village and surrounding farmland who were able to love and care for them.

Damian always scoffed at his attempts, but now he cannot bring himself to dismiss the fact that many of those same children are likely to be hungry, frightened and alone without Tim’s influence in their lives. It seems to be the least Damian can do to attempt to make their lives easier in whatever small way he can manage.

He goes to the orphanage and does his best to maintain Tim’s legacy, feeling awkward and stiff as he attempts to interact with the children without frightening them. How did Tim do this? If he had ever come with him before, perhaps he would know. It’s just another stone to lay on the burden of guilt he carries over the brother he lost—no. The brother he threw away. 

There is an unfamiliar part of him that feels as though it is filled to overflowing when he manages to make one of the children smile or laugh. Over time and with his father’s support, he is able to gradually clear out the Gotham orphanages by bringing children and parents together. There will always be tragedy in the world, and more children to fill the orphanages. Still, it feels like a small breath of redemption every time he helps find one of them a good home.

But there is one girl who catches his eye.

She’s just a slip of a thing, who always clutches a stuffed robin close to her chest. By her size, he would guess her to be less than ten. According to her records, she is eleven. She never speaks, but she watches everyone carefully. Some of the other children have a certain watchfulness born of pain, a defensive awareness like an animal which has been hurt. He can’t look at those children without feeling fury. Their former caretakers are lucky that they’re already dead, or he would punish them for putting that look in a child’s eyes.

This girl is different. Her gaze is trained, darting over each figure in the vicinity as though logging their positions. The way she glances at the likeliest places to store weapons, maintains awareness of all entries and exits in the area, and seems to note every physical ailment or weakness—it’s very familiar. She is watchful like an assassin would be, almost.

No, he knows it with certainty.

Having observed her over the course of several weeks, he believes that he knows her mother—Lady Shiva, the wraith. The girl looks so much like her that it’s almost startling, but evidence of the Cain man who must have sired her is there in traces around her lips and jaw. He remembers both well from his time in the League of Assassins.

Neither of them would be considered good parents by any definition, and he has heard vicious stories about Cain in particular. A man who is not afraid to experiment on the innocent is not a man he would ever trust to treat a child with any gentleness or love. Damian observes the girl, disquieted at his conclusions about her origins. If Cain’s reputation for experimentation holds true, what dire things might this small child have been exposed to?

He prays to the gods that the child was spared the cruel death and unspeakable resurrection which set her mother apart. Wraiths are not easily made, in no small part because the process by which they are created is too harrowing for most to endure with their body and mind intact.

When an older boy tries to take away the stuffed robin in the girl’s hands, her face flickers, momentarily transforming into a frightening, skull-like visage. She’s a wraith. Oh, no. Damian’s heart twists in grief for the suffering this child must have endured in order to become one.

The boy jumps back, shrieking, and the poor girl’s face crumples. She drops her toy to the ground and runs away, tears streaming down her cheeks.

Without even thinking, Damian grabs the worn toy and follows her.

She is clearly an intelligent child who has been through too much and is far too well-trained for her youth, but Damian is almost twice her age and has also been trained by the League of Assassins. It doesn’t take much effort to track her down.

Getting to her is the hardest part, because she has wedged herself into a small crevice between the orphanage and one of its surrounding storage sheds. Her face is buried against her knees as she sobs. Automatic taunts rest on Damian’s tongue, the product of years of training to target and attack weakness, but he swallows them down along with his shame. A question which is becoming increasingly familiar as the days and months pass since his younger brother’s death floats through his mind.

_What would Timothy do?_

The answer is clear. _Help._

“It’s an impressive trick,” he tells her, smiling so if she happens to look up, she will feel safe. “Though it’s impressive in general to be a wraith.” It is. Wraiths are beyond rare. His grandfather would have given much to possess one.

Lady Shiva, of course, is an independent operator who only works with the League when it suits her. He wonders in passing if that’s exactly what happened—after all, the girl’s father, too, has been known to work for the League. If that is the case, though, he has no idea how she ended up here. Ra’s is not known for allowing any of his creatures to escape. Then again, most wraiths spend the majority of their time in their skeletal visage. Wearing the illusion of flesh is incredibly draining to them.

If she learned to wear her human visage in secret, and escaped in that guise—it’s entirely possible that Ra’s and his minions have no idea what she looks like. Although if that is the case, then she must be tremendously powerful by now, considering she almost certainly wears her human visage near-constantly.

The child just cries harder.

Clearly his approach is not working. Perhaps it was not the best idea to remind her of the traumatic ordeal which no doubt resulted in her status as a wraith. He grimaces, wondering once again how Timothy did this, and made it look so easy.

“My name is Damian,” he says, hoping that she will introduce herself out of politeness. She doesn’t, but she does stop crying. Damian is going to take that as a win. “My brother used to come here, but he is unable to help right now. I am here in his stead.”

She peeks up, her dark eyes focused on the stuffed robin.

Of course. He holds it up, raising an eyebrow. “My brother gave this to you, didn’t he?” It’s a likely guess. After all, he knows of no other who supplied the orphanages with toys. He sighs as he places it carefully next to her. “He was a good man like that.”

As Damian realizes more with each passing day. Has it really been a year since Tim died? It seems impossible.

The girl’s eyes tear up again, but thankfully she doesn’t sob. She just reaches out towards the robin and pulls it close. “Kind,” she whispers, and the now-familiar knot crawls into Damian’s throat.

“Yes, he was kind.”

He sits down next to the crevice and leans his head against the side of the building. “I did not treat him kindly when he was alive.” He shakes his head, his lips tightening. “No, that is wrong. I treated him horribly. I didn’t see the good man he was, and all the fault of our broken relationship is on my shoulders. If I just reached out once? Or even simply took the hand he offered in friendship, instead of batting it away in rage? Perhaps everything would have been different.” He takes a deep breath. “I am trying to do what he would have done, but it is difficult. That same kindness, it just—It just isn’t in me.”

Damian stares ahead, gazing out onto the street with blurring eyes. I am attempting to find it, though, I assure you.” He wonders what on earth he thinks he’s going to accomplish, confessing all of this to a damaged, grievously mistreated child who thus far appears to be borderline mute. He is unlikely to win her trust by telling her how badly he treated her favorite person, after all.

He is surprised when she slips out of the opening and slides over next to him, curling up against him as she holds her robin close. On instinct, he awkwardly extends his arm around her, holding his breath until he sees she is not pulling away. “I not kind too,” she says in a soft voice. “Learn together?"

He blinks. “Yes.” Another deep breath. “Yes, we can learn together.” He gives her a watery smile, and she returns it.

“Tell me, little one, what is your name?”

“Cass,” she says, her voice like a little bird’s.

“Cass,” Damian repeats, emphatically nodding his head. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Cass.” He makes a promise to himself then, and he follows through.

Cass never returns to that orphanage except on visits with Damian to help the other children. Every night, they both return home to their father. He can never undo the damage he did to Tim—no matter how much he wants to now that it’s too late—but helping Cass feels a little bit like making amends.

* * *

Bruce’s face twists in disgust as he walks among the elite of Gotham. These foul, scheming monsters have dedicated their lives to destroying those less fortunate than themselves. And the one that Bruce despises the most?

Roman Sionis.

Who has decided to show off some of the magical creatures he got a hold of recently.

Roman calls himself a purveyor of fine goods, but Bruce calls him a slave trader. The way the poor excuse for a man treats magical creatures makes Bruce’s stomach churn, especially considering the greedy way he used to eye Tim. He’s convinced the man would have kidnapped the boy right off the street if he believed he could get away with it. If he knew what Cass is, he’d likely want to do the same to her. Bruce grimaces, his hands tightening into fists at the thought.

The last thing he wants is to be in this man’s presence right now, but he must do this. He’s working with the village magistrate to bring him to justice for illegal trade in magical human-creature hybrids. That means he needs to put on a smiling face and do what he must to make sure Roman falls asleep in a jail cell tonight, where he belongs. It can’t come soon enough.

The man gives Bruce a slimy smile, putting his arm around him and laughing at his own inane joke that Bruce didn’t even notice he made. Most likely because it wasn’t funny. “Come on now, Brucie. Lighten up a little. You’ve been so stern since that brat of yours died.”

His heart wrenches at the reminder. Even over a year later, it still hurts like the moment he saw Tim dive and go down in those horrible dark flames. It’s all Bruce can do to refrain from throwing a punch at this despicable man. All he does is shoot Roman a glare. The man ignores it. Fool.

Roman does not seem to pick up on his anger; instead, he just continues his efforts to try to draw Bruce into the auction grounds. He has had his eye on Bruce’s thick pocketbook for years. “You know what you need?” he says, an avaricious gleam in his eye. “A boy that doesn’t die. I actually have one tonight! An undead. You gotta hope to win the auction, but we both know you have the money to get him.”

He points to the stage where a skinny young boy is holding himself very still, looking out on the crowd in obvious fear. “Look! A boy that can't be killed.”

Bruce isn’t so sure about that—the poor child looks as though he is absolutely _starving._ He wants to go up there and cover him with his cloak, just like he did to Tim so many years ago.

His heart feels like it has been cut into a million pieces as soon as he even thinks Tim’s name, but he pushes past the desolation of losing his child. He just has to focus on taking down Roman, which means letting the pompous idiot chatter on and on until the undercover lawmen in the crowd around them have gathered enough evidence to arrest him and actually make it stick this time. If he sold pure humans, it would be the gallows for him. Because he deals in half-bloods, they’ll be lucky to put him away for a few decades unless they find something more.

Bruce is hoping they can get him on tax evasion. So he listens with half an ear, watching and waiting for him to slip and reveal something useful.

But he can’t stop looking at the boy. He’s small, but Bruce would be willing to bet that like Cass, he’s older than he looks. Mistreatment and malnourishment can stunt a child’s growth. This boy might be around eleven or twelve, not too far off from Cassandra’s age.

Everything about his hopeless, defensive stance brings back memories. Bruce found Tim in an orphanage, cold, shivering, and mistreated because he was a dragonling. His heart called out to the boy immediately. He had to take him in and take care of him, make him feel loved and cared for and nurtured because he doubted that anyone else would have done that, and it _needed_ to be done. And somehow, despite Bruce never knowing the right thing to say or do, Tim grew into an incredible young man.

He would have been an amazing adult.

It has been years since that horrifying day—the day he ordered his own son to what turned out to be his _death_ —but the pain of that loss is always going to linger. He remembers the first time he saw Tim, and the last day he saw him. The images blur in his mind until he abruptly realizes that he is going to take in that boy on the auction block.

It’s what Tim would want him to do.

The lawmen swarm into the building before too much longer, and he delights in the look on Roman's face as he is dragged away. He glances around, searching for the boy in the chaos. The other magical creatures that the man was going to sell are all being looked over by medic mages and hedge witches, but the pale-skinned, shivery boy is by himself, wrapped up in a blanket. It’s probably one of the medical blankets spelled to always be warm, but Bruce doesn't know if it’s working. He still looks so cold.

His teeth grit together as he realizes the lack of care is probably because this child is unable to actually die, so why bother to make sure that he is comfortable when there are others whose needs are more urgent? It’s injustices like this that make Bruce's blood boil. He doesn’t think before he strides over to the boy, who looks up at him in obvious fear before he attempts to school his face into a pugilant expression.

“What’s your name?” he asks, perhaps too gruffly, but he’s tired.

“J-Jason,” the boy stutters out.

Bruce nods. “Do you have any family?” The answer seems obvious, but it’s always best to be sure.

A shake of his head.

Bruce humphs. “Well, that settles it. You’re coming home with me.”

The boy blinks up at him in apparent fear. “Wh-why?”

Bruce is confused. How is this even a question? “You’re a child, you have no family, and I have a home. What else needs to be discussed?”

Jason’s face is emotionless as he considers the offer. After a long moment, he shrugs. “Okay.”

It reminds Bruce so much of how he adopted Tim. He smiles.

Hesitantly, Jason smiles back.

* * *

Jason is more than a little jealous of Cass’s ability to walk perfectly balanced on the railing, but he loves how happy she looks. He doesn’t know much about her early life, but he knows it was something like his. Maybe even worse. Mistreated and abused because he’s part magic, no one cared about him—or her—until the Waynes came into their lives.

Cass is almost dancing now, and Jason laughs.

“Father and Damian will be coming back later,” Cass told him earlier today. “But I was thinking that today would be a good day to explore the city.”

She’s not wrong, he thinks as he looks around. It’s a beautiful sunny day, and Jason loves the feeling of the soft breeze on his face. But it’s hard to feel completely happy, especially when he knows why his father and his older brother aren’t around.

His father and his _eldest_ brother. There should have been another. Today is _his_ day.

He only knows Tim from the portraits, but he thinks that he looks kind. The person that painted him caught caring eyes and a smile on his lips, along with a regal demeanor that must have commanded respect. Jason wonders what it would have been like to meet him. He hopes that Tim would have liked him.

Sometimes, not in front of Bruce and Damian, he and Cass talk about what Tim would have been like if he’d been their brother in truth, and not just a mournful day of remembrance and a question on a wall. They stay up late, whispering words and thoughts of the brother they could have had as they shake from their nightmares, hoping to bring comfort to the other in the dark. Cass is better at it than Jason because she actually _met_ Tim before, back when she still lived at the orphanage. He’s the one who gave her the stuffed toy she still sleeps with every night.

They've determined that Tim would have given them the best hugs, and he would have snuck them cookies when they were sad. Jason loves Bruce and Damian, but they aren’t the best at showing their affection in hugs and kisses. Jason likes to think that Tim would have been better. Based on the stuffed toy, he figures he’s probably right.

Cass is only twelve still, so it’s okay that she still sleeps with a stuffed toy. Jason turned thirteen two months ago—he had a party with a feast and everything!—so he’s much too mature for such things now. Not that he complains when Cass slips into his room on one of his bad nights and gently, knowingly tucks her Redbird under his arm to soothe his slumbers. 

Jason is absorbed in watching Cass, so he doesn’t even notice the small boy until it’s almost too late.

He’s dirty, with bright blue eyes shining out of a smudged little face. There’s no way he’s more than ten years old. He’s also holding a dagger and looking at them with dangerous intent. Huh. “Wallets. Now.”

They blink at him, and Jason does his best to fight off a highly inappropriate smile. You’re not supposed to smile at muggers, but holy shit, this kid is _cute._

Cass tilts her head. “Who are you?”

"Talon!” he says. “My name is Talon.”

Jason shakes his head. “No, it’s not.” He knows parents are generally shit, but what kind of person names a kid _Talon?_

The kid frowns petulantly, and holy fuck, it’s adorable. “Yes, it is.”

He rolls his eyes. “No. It’s not.”

“Ye—”

“Dick! What are you doing? Are you going around telling people your name is Talon again?”

Cass and Jason both look behind the kid and see a tall brown-haired young woman holding a little red-haired child close to her. The redhead’s face is red as well. She’s shaking, and Jason knows what fever looks like. On the streets, sickness is more dangerous than anything else. He instantly wants to wrap the child up in blankets and feed her soup.

“Get back, Helena!” the kid, Dick he guesses, snaps. “This is the only way to get Babs her medicine.” He sounds despairing.

Helena’s face twists in what looks like concern and guilt. “I just have to work harder so I can earn enough money, but what with her medicine and the cost of food—”

Jason looks at Cass, and he’s pretty sure they both know what they’re going to do. Babs looks about six years old. Helena looks older—practically a grown up—but her clothes are threadbare, she’s way too young to be these kids’ mom, and she’s clearly in need of help. There’s no upper age limit to adoptions, right? 

“Yeah, kid, you don’t have to hold people up,” Jason says, because his new little brother needs to know how things should be done.

“You will be little brother and little sisters now,” Cass says, and like always Jason is impressed with how Cass can make the strangest statements sound like basic facts. “And you will have all the medicine you need.”

Helena frowns. “How can I be your little sister? I’m twenty.”

Cass just gives her an enigmatic smile. “Little sister.” She nods seriously.

“Liar,” Dick spits out, ignoring the exchange. “We can’t trust you.”

He has a fair point. Jason wouldn’t trust himself either. But he can’t let these kids stay out on the street. “Look, I understand what you’re thinking, but believe me when I say that we just want to help you.” He points to the child. “Let us help her. We aren’t going to do anything. We swear on the Wonderous Woman.” At hearing the name of the most Sacred goddess, Dick lowers his knife.

“I’m keeping this on me,” he says. Jason shrugs.

“You should see how many Damian has.”

Bruce won’t mind them bringing a bunch of new kids home. Heck, if he’d seen them, he would absolutely have done the same. Jason grins at his new little brother and sisters, who all eye him warily. This is going to be great.

* * *

Bruce eyes the young woman who just entered his home, a pair of younger children clutching at her ragged skirts. She looks… familiar. He continues to stare at her with a puzzled frown until Damian’s strident tones draw his attention back to the drama unfolding in the foyer. Cass seems to have slipped away during his distraction.

“Jason, there are important considerations which you must always address prior to bringing home new family members!” Damian scowls and crosses his arms, looking every inch the haughty, prideful boy he was at twelve when he first entered Wayne Manor and encountered his new younger brother. He may be nineteen years old now, but the possibility of him backsliding into old behavioral patterns remains.

Bruce winces, remembering all too well how poorly that confrontation—and the subsequent years of squabbling and discord—went. Damian has come so far since then, though, welcoming both Cass and Jason into their home. He has spent the past year being the kind of caring, protective older brother Bruce wishes he would have been for Tim.

Is he falling back into old behavioral patterns, threatened somehow by the presence of three new potential family members?

“Damian—” Bruce begins, frowning in concern.

“They’re our brother and sisters, I don’t care _what_ you say—” Jason says at the same time, scowling.

Damian rolls his eyes and continues speaking as though they hadn’t interrupted. “Just look at them!” He gestures sweepingly over the trio, all of whom are watching the dispute, wide-eyed. “Their clothing is appalling! The state of their shoes is worse! Todd, you young fool, you ought to have taken them to the tailor and cobbler to immediately rectify these issues! A Wayne is not to be dressed so shoddily!”

A ringing silence follows his words. Jason blinks, looking stunned, and then slowly deflates. “Oh,” he says, scratching his head. “I, uh, didn’t think of that.” He shuffles his feet. “I mean, Babs is sick, so I figured there wasn’t time to—”

Bruce’s frown deepens and he quickly scans the girls again. The taller still looks naggingly familiar, but she also appears quite healthy so he skips over her for now. The small girl at her side is flushed, now that he’s looking at her closer. In fact…

“Ah, here’s my patient now,” Alfred says in a calm, pleasant voice. Everyone turns to where Cass is leading him down the stairs by the hand. “Miss Cass came and got me. I see it was none too soon. Please come along, Miss…?” He extends his free hand to the little red haired girl, who glances at Cass and then takes it shyly.

“Babs,” she says softly, looking around with eager, intelligent eyes.

Alfred smiles gently and leads the little girl out of the room, obviously intending to tend to her fever and ensconce her comfortably in a sickbed. Cass goes with them, as does the little boy who up until now had watched silently and with visible suspicion. Jason follows them, probably intending to distract the boy while his sister rests.

Bruce doesn’t try to stop him. It’s better for these children to stay together until they’re comfortable here. Cass and Jason will be a reassuring presence for them.

Turning to his remaining guest—new child? He really isn’t sure yet—he reaches out a hand in greeting. “Bruce Wayne,” he says. “Jason didn’t mention your name, Miss…?”

“Kyle,” the young woman says as she takes his hand, sending ripples of memory through him like a stone in a quiet pond. “Helena Kyle.” He must blanche, because her brows draw together in a familiar-looking frown of concern. Good god.

She looks just like her mother. But those eyebrows and cheekbones are all him.

Damian looks back and forth between them. “Father?” he asks, a puzzled frown starting on his face. “Is something wrong?”

“No,” Bruce says hoarsely, “there’s nothing wrong. Rather, I suspect something has come right. Helena, was your mother by any chance Selina Kyle?”

Her eyes widen. “How did you know that?”

“Your mother and I were once… close. We parted over twenty years ago. I never suspected for a moment she was—” He breaks off, shaking his head. Whatever was between him and Selina isn’t what’s important right now. He looks into his daughter’s eyes. “Helena, I believe I may not need to adopt you at all—I think it is extremely likely that you are my daughter by blood, just as Damian is my son.”

Helena stares at him, clearly stunned. “I—she never told me anything about my father.” She frowns. “It makes sense, but…”

“You wish to be sure,” Damian says, and she nods, looking grateful. “Yes, I understand that drive to know. It… seems too good to be true, doesn’t it?” He glances away, flushing faintly beneath his dark golden-olive skin. He turns back to look at her. “I assure you, Father would wish for you to remain here even if you turn out not to be his daughter. However—” He mutters a quick spell, gesturing, and then smirks as a faint blue glow forms around both Bruce and Helena for a moment before fading. “You most certainly are his daughter. Welcome home, Helena.”

She inhales deeply, her shoulders shuddering slightly as she visibly struggles to maintain control. “I—I can’t believe—” Swallowing, she pauses for a moment before starting again. “I was sixteen when Mama died. It was fine, for a while. I could hunt and provide for myself. It was fine.”

Bruce raises an eyebrow. “So you’re like Selina? That’s wonderful. Only, how did you end up with the other? Are they Selina’s children, too?”

Helena nods. “Yes, I’m a werepanther like Mama. No, the others aren’t my blood siblings. I was just fine on my own. But then…” She shakes her head, loose waves of dark hair tumbling over her shoulders. “I found Dick crying alone in the wilds, the only survivor of his caravan. His parents were traveling performers. As best I can tell, someone from the last town they performed in decided to slaughter them for not paying up after an extortion attempt. I chased down the murderers and took care of them, but after that—” She shrugs helplessly. “I couldn’t just leave him alone.”

Damian appears to be having trouble keeping a straight face. Bruce eyes him sternly. “Damian,” he says remonstratively, “it isn’t funny.”

“Father, had I not already known she is a Wayne, I would after hearing that story.” Damian snorts in laughter, then turns to Helena apologetically. “Please forgive me, but Father has quite the reputation for adopting children. It has become something of a tradition for each of us to also in turn adopt more children. You appear to have done so prior to even joining the family.”

Helena stares at him for a moment and then laughs. “Well, there could be far worse family traditions than that. Anyway, Dick and I got by okay for a few years. But then we found Babs—she was hardly more than a toddler when her parents were killed in a carriage accident. She was too little to tell us anything about other relatives and the people at the nearest towns didn’t recognize her, so we ended up keeping her ourselves.”

Bruce pictures it. Memories of Selina flood his mind—the wild, fierce nature underlying her beauty, her preference for forests and open spaces far from civilization. She had barely any human in her at all. Helena, on the other hand, is more than half human. She must have craved companionship and people in a way that Selina chafed against.

Only, taking care of a pair of young, traumatized children while barely more than a child herself would have been a daunting task. Without a home or source of income, it sounds nigh impossible. “How did you survive this long?”

She shrugs. “I hunt, and we bring what I kill into town to sell. We’re constantly moving, though—a were-panther on the prowl is hard to hide, and the last thing I want is to attract the beast-slavers. We were actually going to move on from Gotham this week, only Babs fell sick and we had to stay.”

He nods. It all fits. He looks at his brave, generous daughter, who is now speaking quietly to his strong, courageous son, and his heart twists. How is it that he’s been given so many precious, irreplaceable young lives to care for? Don’t they know how badly he’s failed once already?

As memories of Tim rise up, bringing with them a wave of aching grief, he swallows around the tightness in his throat. Today is supposed to be Tim’s day, the second anniversary of the day they lost him.

Lost in his thoughts, he drifts along in Damian’s and Helena’s wake as they head down the hall toward the large, airy spare room which Alfred has transformed into a sickroom. Babs is resting peacefully in the bed. Jason is seated at a settee nearby, reading aloud in a quiet voice to Dick and Cass.

When she sees them, tension he wasn’t aware she was carrying drains from Helena. She approaches and sits on the floor by the settee, one hand drifting up to rest on Dick’s hand. Damian moves to stand behind them, looking out the window as though to make it appear that he isn’t listening to the story when he clearly is.

Bruce bites back a smile. They look good together. And if the picture will never be quite complete, well, that’s all the more reason to treasure and protect the children he has left.

* * *

“A demigod,” Damian says flatly, eyeing Dick with disbelief as they sit in front of the fire in the sitting room and enjoy an evening of relaxation. They have been telling stories, as is their wont, and the conversation drifted onto their various backgrounds and heritage. “You’re a demigod.” He turns to Helena and demands, “I thought you said his parents were traveling performers?”

“Acrobats,” she says with a laugh. “But really, you know how these things are.” She rolls her eyes. He raises his eyebrows, acknowledging the point.

Most of the known pantheon are notorious womanizers, and several are shapeshifters to boot. Honestly, it’s entirely possible Dick was fathered by a god in the form of a breath of wind or something equally ridiculous. But… “How did you figure this out?”

Dick shrugs. “Whenever I get badly hurt, I sort of glow and then heal really fast? And occasionally minor miracles spontaneously happen around me. It’s weird, but useful.” He bounces on the balls of his feet before jumping up and somehow making his way on top of one of the bookshelves, where he balances in a position which should, in Damian’s opinion, be humanly impossible.

Minor miracles, indeed.

Damian just sighs. After living with Dick and the others for the past month, he has learned to pick his battles. As long as no one is at serious risk of life or limb, it is generally better to just let them be.

Jason snickers, stretching out his legs on the rug in front of the fire. “I believe it. I mean, it was definitely a minor miracle that time Dickie climbed up on the roof and then— _oof!”_

He breaks off as Dick leaps down from the bookshelf and tackles him. “You promised not to tell anyone about that!”

“What, exactly, did you do on the roof?” Helena’s normally warm tones are arctic as she eyes the misbehaving boys.

They separate, looking guilty. “Uh, it wasn’t really anything,” Jason mutters, clearly trying to cover now that they’re making it into a big deal.

“He jumped,” Babs says clearly from her position, curled in a blanket on Cass’s lap. The girls have been sitting snugly in the armchair right by the fire, Cass watching and smiling in appreciation as Babs uses her technomancy to make a little clockwork figure she made walk up and down the arm of the chair.

“Dick—!” Helena sends him a fierce look. “What have I told you about doing risky things like that?”

Dick looks even guiltier. “Not… do them?” he tries. Helena growls, reminding Damian uncomfortably of her were-form. By the way Dick pales, he just made the same comparison.

Damian clears his throat. “There are many reasons to practice consideration and care for your own safety, such as avoiding injury and valuing your own life.” he says quietly. “And…” He frowns, then sighs. Up until now, he is fairly certain no one has mentioned the existence of another brother to their new siblings. Tim’s portrait still hangs, but it would be quite easy for a newcomer to gloss over it, assuming it to be one of the numerous ancestral portraits which adorn the walls of Wayne Manor.

He glances toward the doorway and is relieved to see his father is not there. It would be cruel to remind him unnecessarily. Turning back to Helena, Dick, and Barbara, he resumes. “It is important to remember that there are others who will suffer if you are injured or worse.” He looks into the fire as he speaks, not wanting to meet anyone’s eyes. “We—have another brother. Rather, we had one.” He shakes his head at Dick’s excited exclamation. “No, you can’t meet him. I regret that more than I can say.”

Helena goes still at his side, sympathy writ across her face. “What was his name?” she asks gently.

“Tim,” he says in a voice that is almost too tight to continue. He closes his eyes hard, clears his throat, and tries again. “There was a battle. He fought hard, and fell to save us. He was intelligent and kind, gentle and yet so fierce when he had to be. He was dragonborn and I scorned him for it, more fool I.” He swallows. “Perhaps a part of me was jealous. His wings would span the entire ballroom, and he glittered and dazzled like the sun. In his human form he was so small, no one would ever expect the scales and teeth that waited just below the surface.”

Father’s rough voice speaks from the doorway. “His loss tore a hole in our hearts that will never heal.”

Damian twitches, turning in surprise to face him as his father approaches. The man sinks into the other armchair by the fire with a weary sigh.

The silence is broken only by the merry crackling of the fire, which knows nothing of old grief. After a long moment, Dick clears his throat and toys with the hem of his pants as he says, “Tell us about him?”

Unexpectedly, Cass is the first to begin. “I used to be sad, all the time. I thought I wasn’t allowed to show it. I wasn’t supposed to feel it. But I did. Tim is the one who saw, and he tried to help me—”

As his quietest sister’s soft voice flows on, retelling the stories of her encounters with Tim, Damian glances around the room. Barbara is enraptured, staring up at Cass with curiosity and interest in her youthful gaze. Dick is juggling a handful of coins as he listens, but he is clearly paying attention. Helena and Jason are listening quietly and calmly, with more grief in their expressions that he would expect, considering they never knew Tim themselves.

Father is—Damian swallows and has to look away from the vulnerability of his father’s expression. His face is outwardly calm, but to one who knows him well the tightness around his eyes and jaw, coupled with the slight shine in his eyes—it’s anguish.

As the stories continue, though, with Damian and Cass alternating tales about Tim with the rousing adventures Helena shares from her earlier life, and Dick’s experiences on the road, the somber mood in the room gradually lifts. Before long, they’re laughing helplessly over a ridiculous prank Dick apparently pulled on a trader who tried to cheat Helena.

When Damian looks up again, his father is smiling.

It isn’t perfect. Of course it isn’t. But, as Damian gazes at his siblings and feels that achingly tender surge of protectiveness, worry, and care, he thinks it might as well be. It took him so long to learn these lessons. If only he could have shared the benefits with his lost brother. He knows that this—a family united by care and not built on rigid lines of hierarchy, competition and infighting—would have made Tim happy.

Too bad it’s a couple of years too late. Still, it isn’t too late to punish the one responsible for their loss. Damian meets his father’s eyes over the younger boys’ heads.

Six months after Tim’s death, Damian tried to sneak out, intending to go to Nanda Parbat on his own to avenge him. His father caught him, of course. Upon finding out what he intended to do, he exacted a promise that Damian would not seek out his grandfather to exact vengeance until after his twenty-first birthday.

Damian took in his father’s grieving, haggard appearance, and immediately made the promise, contingent on Bruce waiting until then as well. He didn’t want his father riding into battle without backup.

The adoption of Jason and Cass provided a welcome diversion, helping them heal and grow as a family. Helena, Dick, and Barbara are doing the same.

As Damian looks into his father’s eyes, he knows Bruce hasn’t forgotten their promise either.

Just two more years, and they’ll finally make Ra’s pay for what he took. It won’t bring Tim back. It won’t even salve the pain of his loss.

But it will give him justice, and they owe him at least that much _._

* * *

Dick makes a face. There are termites in a log three miles away, and their chewing is keeping him awake. “What the heck?” he moans, pulling the pillow over his head to try to block out the sound. Of course, it doesn’t work.

He sighs. His powers are so bizarre. Shouldn’t they only kick in when there’s something important going on, a danger of some kind that urgently needs his attention? His increased reflexes were great the other week when Babs tripped and almost fell right into the fireplace. The improved senses of sight and hearing were awesome last winter when a child from the village got lost in the woods near Wayne Manor and everyone had to look for him in a blizzard.

This, though? Not so much.

Jason is snoring in the next room. To Dick’s currently highly sensitive hearing, it sounds like an avalanche filled with rocks. He sighs, then winces at the loud rushing sound of the air moving out of his mouth. Wow this is awful. Maybe if he just directs his attention somewhere quiet, like the library, he can tune out the cacophony of sounds that’s driving him crazy right now. Hopefully, if he can just manage to drop off to sleep, his senses will be back to normal by morning.

He concentrates, focusing his awareness on the library. It should be empty and silent at this time of night, a refuge for his battered senses.

It isn’t.

“Father, my birthday is in six months.” Damian’s voice echoes loudly in Dick’s ears, but it’s not unpleasant. At least it’s better than Jason’s snoring or the termites.

“Happy birthday,” Bruce replies.

Damian snorts. “You know what I mean. It is time for us to take vengeance against Grandfather for what he did to Tim.”

Wait, what? Dick sits up in bed, the soft blankets pooling around his waist. This… sounds like something important. Suddenly, he feels a lot less resentful of his powers. Slipping from the bed, he tiptoes over to Jason’s room and wakes him up. “Jay,” he whispers urgently.

“Ugh, what? No. Sleep,” Jason orders, rolling over and presenting Dick with his back.

Dick rolls his eyes and hisses, “No, this is important!”

Jason half-turns to face him, peeling open one eye and regarding him with bleary concern. “You had another nightmare, Dickie?” He sighs and starts to sit up, patting the bed at his side.

Dick shakes his head, but he can’t help but smile. Over the past two years living at Wayne Manor, he realized quickly that every single inhabitant is used to being awakened by nightmares—their own and those of others. Every door is open to offer comfort after a nightmare. He usually goes to Cass these days because since Jason turned fifteen he seems to need a ridiculous amount of sleep. Damian says it’s being a teenager, but Dick is suspicious. After all, he’s twelve, which is practically a teenager, and _he_ doesn’t sleep in until breakfast is cold on the table.

None of that is important right now, though. “It’s not a nightmare,” he whispers. “It’s my powers.”

Jason straightens, regarding him with a focused, alert stare. They’ve all learned that when Dick’s powers activate, urgent action is generally needed. “Which ones?”

“Hearing. Jay,” Dick hesitates, tuning in on the library again and getting an earful of Bruce and Damian’s plans to attack Ra’s al Ghul and take on his armies in Nanda Parbat. “It’s Bruce and Damian. They’re going to go after the League of Assassins for killing Tim, and they’re not planning to take any of us.” He tilts his head, listening again. “In fact, they’re planning to keep it a secret, for our safety.” He makes a face.

Jason rolls his eyes and snorts. “Well, fuck that. Tim was our brother too—or he should’ve been.” He frowns for a moment, then raises his eyebrows with a devious little smirk. “I think we need to talk to the girls. If we’re going to do this, everyone should have a chance to be involved.”

Still not sure what Jason means—do _what?—_ Dick tilts his head inquiringly. “Do what, exactly?”

“Crash it, obviously. What, you think we’re letting our dad and big brother ride into battle without backup?”

Dick stares at him, a surge of adrenaline coursing through him at the thought. He feels charged, ready to go right now. “Awesome,” he whispers, feeling both excited and a little scared.

Jason eyes him and then rolls his eyes. “Yeah, when I say backup, I _mean_ backup. You kids aren’t going to be on the front lines or anything.” He shakes his head when Dick opens his mouth to argue. “C’mon, we gotta talk to Cass. She’s the best at strategy, and she knows the League. Meanwhile, you keep listening in on the others. The more we know about when and how those idiots are planning to sneak off by themselves, the better.”

Nodding, Dick turns his attention back to the library as Jason rises and leads him carefully down the hall to Cass’s room. She opens the door before they even quite reach it, looks at them searchingly for a moment, and smiles. “I’ll get the others,” she whispers, gesturing for them to wait in her room.

A moment later, they’re all there. Jason takes a deep breath, and the war council convenes.

* * *

Bruce stalks across the seared, dead plains that surround Nanda Parbat, the necropolis where the League of Assassins has festered, unchallenged for the past thousand years. No more.

The sky roils with dark clouds, but no rain will fall here. Around him, bones and fragments of armor are all that remains of those who made the attempt previously. He tries not to look, but can’t help but notice that the only bones left to rot here are small and scattered.

He knows what the League does with intact corpses. Their armies are filled with former enemies and victims alike, all raised and bound after their excruciating deaths to serve the League. If he and Damian defeat Ra’s, they will be able to free all those suffering souls as well as avenge his lost son.

The very air twists and crackles with the magic he and Damian have been gathering and hoarding over the past three and a half years, since the day they made their vow. It’s an immense font of power, and he can’t wait to unleash it on their enemy. The wards and shields he and Damian have woven around themselves are so strong, they are visible to the naked eye as a faint glow surrounding each of them.

Nothing like this has ever been attempted before. Few have tried to challenge Ra’s al Ghul in the very seat of his power, and none with less than an army behind them.

But, no one has ever made the attempt with not one, but _two_ master warmages, one of whom is half-demon and a direct descendent of the al Ghul bloodline. Bruce smiles grimly. Normally, he prefers not to dabble in blood magic. It falls too easily to the dark. However, in this case, he is willing to make an exception.

“Ra’s!” he bellows, amplifying his voice with magic. His words resound across the barren plains and shake the very foundations of the dark city where it crouches, wrapped around the craggy rocks which break the east end of the plains into badlands. “Show yourself!”

For a moment, there is silence.

Then, the ground begins to tremble. Great cracks open up in the parched soil, and then widen as the entire surface of the barrens surrounding them undulates, mounding with the pressure of what is rising up from beneath. Beside his foot, the first skeletal hand breaks through.

He braces himself. At his side and slightly behind him, Damian does the same. For a moment, Bruce wavers. His oldest boy is just twenty-one years old—powerful beyond measure due to his heritage and training, but so young. How can Bruce risk him here? If he loses another child—

He ruthlessly cuts off that line of thought, driving it away with all the arguments that led them here. If he hadn’t worked with Damian and aided this effort, then it would have happened anyway without his assistance or presence. He would have lost another son to the demon who stalks his nightmares.

Regardless, there is no benefit to be gained worrying about it now. The dead are upon them. He spins to set his back against Damian’s, and together, they begin to fight.

* * *

Damian pants, his face twisted in a grimace of pain and effort. There are too many of them. Just as when the League of Assassins attacked Gotham all those years ago, the liches and raised forces are overwhelming them by sheer numbers. For every suppression, paralysis, and stasis spell he shouts, another hundred surge forth from the ground to fill the void.

The awful truth of the barrens is becoming clear—it’s not just a graveyard, it’s a boneyard built on top of what must be immense catacombs.

They miscalculated.

The awful truth fills his mind as his father unleashes a truly devastating spell that howls through the ranks around them, decimating a good quarter of the raised forces currently on the field. It makes no difference, though, because a moment later the ground begins to quake and buckle as yet more of the slain and enslaved begin to rise.

“Father,” he shouts, not knowing what he intends to say next. They haven’t even managed to draw Ra’s out in person. All of their plans are contingent on being able to break through his forces sufficiently to bring him to the field. If they can’t reach him, then—

They’ve lost.

Sensing movement behind himself, he spins, ready to take off the head of whatever mindless corpse managed to slip past his defense and make it so close. When he sees who it is, he freezes. “Cass?” he whispers, unable to comprehend the fact that he’s seeing his fourteen year-old sister in the midst of this carnage. Is this some spell to distract him with the image of a loved one? He clenches his hand on his sword, but he can’t bring himself to raise it against her.

Father turns, still fighting, and catches sight of them. His eyes widen in horror. “Cass! What are you doing here?”

She smiles at them. And then, she turns to the field of battle, and _breathes._ Before their eyes, her olive brown skin fades to gray as her face and exposed limbs take on a skeletal cast. An icy wind fills the air, whipping across the battlefield in a turbulent frenzy that sends dust flying.

Every raised corpse on the field of battle freezes, then slowly turns. Cass breathes again.

And the corpses begin marching _toward_ Nanda Parbat.

“What?” Damian whispers, unable to comprehend what he is seeing.

“There is a reason Ra’s wishes to have control over wraiths,” Cass says softly, tilting her head to watch the chaos she has wrought. She turns to him again, and this time her smile is a wicked, dancing thing on her skull-like visage. “We’re the best way to control his armies. One of us is better than even the strongest binding spell.” She turns back to the battle.

Damian frowns. Wraiths are so rare as to be more myth than anything else. He was always taught that the League valued them for their ability to move in shadows and kill with a breath. Apparently, there is more to it.

His grandfather likely preferred to keep those secrets close. It makes sense, considering the decimation Cass has wrought with a mere few minutes of work.

Father frowns. “Doesn’t he have others in his power?” He appears to have taken his daughter’s appearance here in stride now that the immediate danger has been averted.

Cass turns her head from side to side slowly, searchingly. “No one is fighting my control,” she says after a moment, sounding relieved. “We’re very difficult to make. He must not have tried again after me.”

Damian opens his mouth to ask another question, but his father cuts him off. “Brace yourselves! The next wave will be different!”

A moment later, he’s proven correct as the liches and demonic hordes descend upon them. He snarls when he realizes their attacks are focused primarily on Cass. How dare they attack his little sister?

He begins chanting a spell that will lay waste to the liches, at least giving them breathing room here until the monsters respawn at their phylacteries and make their way back. Since the phylacteries containing what’s left of their souls are almost certainly located within the sullen city on the stones before them, it won’t be long. Father lends the weight of his magic, and suddenly the spell builds at more than twice the rate. Around them, liches begin to collapse and burn to ash.

Cass breathes again, sending her armies of corpses after the demons. Skeletal arms reach to the dark sky and pull winged demons from the air, rending and snapping even as the demons snarl and tear them apart.

Damian isn’t sure how long they’ve been fighting when the realization forces itself into his mind.

They’re holding their own now, but it still isn’t enough. The battle seethes around them, liches respawning and returning as fast as he and Father can discorporate them. The demons are in poor shape, many grounded and injured, but Cass’s skeletal army isn’t looking any better. Their numbers have dwindled, many too dismembered by the demons to be of any use for fighting.

Ra’s still hasn’t made an appearance. Damian glares at Nanda Parbat, wishing fiercely that he knew a spell strong enough to melt those dark walls and break open the city of black stone.

At his side, Cass smiles, her gaze traveling out over the field.

Damian frowns, following her gaze, and sees—

“What the _hells_ is _that?”_ He stares, gobsmacked at the sight of what looks like a clockwork _army_ stomping toward them across the barrens. The mechanized men, which appear to have been built from scavenged scrap metal and bits and pieces of rocks and twigs, have to be held together and animated by magic. There’s no other way such a hodgepodge assortment of materials could move of their own accord, or indeed, hold together in one piece.

“Babs,” Cass says in a satisfied-sounding voice.

Father makes an alarmed sound. “What?” His gaze fixes on a black dot, which is rapidly approaching the field. As it overtakes the clockwork men, it rapidly becomes apparent that it is actually an enormous panther.

Helena. And—

There’s someone riding on her back. Two someones, actually.

Damian can’t breathe. His younger siblings are all here, in danger, and it’s going to happen again. He’s going to lose them, just like he lost Tim, and there’s nothing he can do to _stop it—_

“Breathe,” Cass says softly, her hand resting on his arm. He sees that her other hand is on Father’s, holding him back. He looks as though he wants to run out there and gather up every one of his endangered children to carry them back to safety. “Trust us.” She nods toward the panther.

Following her gaze, Damian watches, stunned, as Dick vaults off Helena’s back, and _flies._ He soars through the air as though he has wings on his feet, tumbling and laughing for joy. Grinning, he raises a hand and _fires a bolt of lightning_ at one of the remaining winged demons. It sizzles, sending the scorching demon to the ground where it crawls away, hissing its displeasure.

Damian blinks, frowning. “Are we sure he only has _one_ godly parent?” The array of powers Dick manifests at seeming random is beginning to be suspect.

Father snorts. “I have been compiling a list of the deities whom I believe were involved in Dick’s conception. It looks like I need to add a few names.”

Well then. Damian turns back to the huge black cat, who is now gleefully charging through the battlefield, sending everything in her path sailing through the air with great rents from her sharp teeth and dagger-like claws. He clears his throat as he watches her worry a particularly beefy demon and then fling it so hard it disappears into the distance. Helena seems fine.

His heart seizes as he remembers Babs. Those clockwork men could only be her work. “Babs—” he says, scanning the clockwork army for any sign of their young master.

Father shakes his head, looking deeply relieved. “She isn’t here,” he says, clearly having cast a locator spell to check.

Cass nods. “Puppets,” she says. “Babs is controlling them from the Manor. Alfred is helping her scry so she can see the battle and know where to direct them.”

Damian nods slowly. Babs is a precocious young technomancer, with excellent control and power when it comes to operating her disturbing array of metal and wooden puppets, even at a distance. He is pleased to see that no one wishes to allow a ten year-old child into battle, no matter how powerful she is. If only the others were as careful of their own lives.

He searches the battlefield for Jason and finds him after a moment, a short distance to the west. He is cleaving his way through a veritable sea of liches and minor demons with his flails. Three spiked maces swing from chains at the end of each flail, which Jason is dual-wielding expertly to great effect.

As he watches, a wounded lich lurches toward Jason from behind and stabs him in the back. It all happens so fast. “No!” Damian screams, dimly aware of his father shouting denial at his side.

Jason sways, looking as though his knees are about to buckle. Frantically, Damian runs through all the healing magic he knows as he begins to attempt to fight his way through the remaining enemies to reach his dying brother.

Then Jason straightens and turns to the lich with a broad grin. “Never met an undead before, have you?” he asks conversationally as he uses his weapons to viciously discorporate the lich. He glances up and sees them still watching him in stunned horror. Grinning, he gives them a wave before turning back to saunter through the battlefield, clubbing liches and demons as he goes.

Of course. It has been so long since he’s thought of Jason’s nature, he actually forgot for a moment. Jason, of all his siblings, is not in danger of dying here. If he could, though, Damian would still spare him the pain of each blow.

He swallows as he turns to scan the battlefield again, this time with an eye to the general status instead of focusing only on his siblings. All around them, enemy forces are falling and not rising to fight again. With the reinforcements provided by his siblings—and later, he is absolutely going to get answers on how and why they managed to make their way out here—they’re winning.

He turns to his father, the beginnings of a grin and exclamation of hope on his lips. The words die in his throat as he takes in the expression on his father’s face. Bruce is staring toward the city, grim determination and fury present in every line of his stance. “Ra’s,” he growls, and then _moves._

Damian spins to see a figure standing at the top of the steps leading to the main entrance to Nanda Parbat. It’s Ra’s al Ghul. His dark green robes flow around him as though blown by an unseen wind. He looks the same as ever, ageless and not quite human. There’s something new in his attire, though.

He’s wearing what looks like a leather cape. It’s red with glittering gold highlights. Oh gods, no. Tim.

Ra’s looks right at Damian, and smirks.

A moment later, he has to turn away to focus on Father’s attack, which knocks him down and sends him tumbling out onto the barrens. Father gives him no time to recover, attacking again immediately and then closing to strike physically as well as by magical methods. By the ferocity with which he casts spell after spell, using borderline dark magic and not putting the usual damage limits, he saw the cape as well and knows what it means. Damian swallows, his eyes stinging in a highly unwelcome manner.

They had hoped that Tim went quickly, perhaps consumed entirely by the balefire. Apparently, that was not the case. Grandfather was obviously able to retrieve at least some portion of the—his mind baulks, unable to contemplate Tim’s remains without growing physically ill.

He’s wrenched from his thoughts by the sight of new attackers emerging to stand at the top of the steps. One is an armored, masked warrior who doesn’t look like a lich. A higher level demon, perhaps? Ra’s has several such in his employ as generals. The other is a bald woman who looks to be at least half orc, although that may simply be due to the vicious snarl twisting her face as she scans the battlefield.

At some unseen signal, his two opponents move as one, leaping into the fray. Instead of supporting their master against Bruce, they come for Damian. “Surrender, or prepare to fall with your master!” he shouts as he falls into a defensive stance, eyeing them warily as they circle him.

Cass breathes softly, sending some of her skeletal soldiers to his and Bruce’s defense, but they are no match against the higher order demon and whatever Damian’s opponents are. She sends him an apologetic shrug and falls back to support their younger siblings at his nod. He can handle this on his own. He has to.

Squaring his shoulders, he whispers his first spell and prepares to _win._

“Came a long way to die, didn’t he?” the armored man murmurs in a harsh, mechanized voice as he twirls his staff, the blades on both ends glinting menacingly.

The half-orc snickers, grinning wickedly and exposing what looks like far too many sharp teeth as she lifts her huge spiked hammer easily and rests it against her shoulder. “They always do. Oh well—just more fodder for the rotters army, yeah? After the mess these idiots made of our corpse brigade, we’re bound to have some openings to fill.”

“What do you say, hero? You ready to apply for a position in the boneyard?” The armored man jabs at Damian, then sweeps the blade at his ankles as he leaps back, not trusting his protective wards against what is almost certainly a powerfully spelled weapon.

He realizes his mistake as he feels a whisper of warning and curls forward, ducking and barely missing the sweep of the spiked hammer as it swings over his head. Both of their weapons have a greater range than his swords—his best strategy is to overwhelm them with magic. Father needs his help to defeat Ra’s. Apparently he must get past these two to do it.

Twisting, Damian casts a few quick fireballs to hold them off, noting the way the pair move fluidly in tandem to avoid damage and position themselves for their next attack. His next casts are faster, testing for weaknesses in their armor and warding.

“No, thank you. Perhaps you should apply for the position yourselves—in fact, I am perfectly willing to assist in the process.” He casts a powerful life-draining area effect, hoping his father isn’t watching right now. There are certain spells he was taught in his youth which aren’t simply frowned on in the outside world, they are entirely forbidden. It doesn’t matter, though. He isn’t about to watch his family die without using every weapon in his arsenal.

The next pass of the bladed staff is so close, he is fairly certain it shaves a few hairs from his head.

“Hard pass,” says the armored man. “Why are you here, anyway? Power? Some self-righteous quest to make the world a safer place? The world is ugly and new monsters will always step up to take the place of the old. What’s the point of fighting?”

Damian sneers. “You wouldn’t understand.” He casts ice darts, which spray indiscriminately across both of his opponents. His gaze catches on the half-orc’s armor, which has dents and scratches where the ice darts struck her.

She isn’t warded against ice. He throws a glance at the armored man, whose armor is still perfectly intact. He’s the higher ranking one, then, and the expense necessary to ward an armor against all potential risks was not deemed appropriate for his subordinate.

Damian blocks a ferocious flurry of blows from the bladed staff and looks at the half-orc again. The damage is minor, but it’s a weakness. He intends to take full advantage of it.

“Oy, pretty boy, my eyes are up here!” She grins viciously as she swings her hammer again, bringing it down where he was just standing with a horrific thud and cracking of the ground as he leaps out of the way.

The bladed staff darts toward him again, but he’s already casting an area effect ice spell. The half-orc goes still, literally frozen in place, long enough for him to land a solid punch. She stumbles back, clutching at her face. “My soddin’ nose! I’m gonna _end_ you, ya filthy little blighter—”

He prepares another area effect spell, this one intended to fully encase her in ice, and then freezes himself as a whirlwind of darkness descends on their portion of the battlefield. Father and Ra’s have moved closer, within earshot. He can hear their taunts carrying across the distance between them.

Well, that will make it easier to go to Father’s aid once he has defeated these two. Damian whispers a clearsight spell and then jerks to the side to dodge that damned bladed staff again.

He squares off against the armored warrior and sends a few more fireballs as he tries to figure out this one’s weakness. The half-orc is still stumbling around. It will be some time before she is free of the effects of the earlier ice spell, so all he has to do is find a way to bring down this warrior.

A silky, sneering voice reaches his ears, with devastating effect. “So that is why you came? I see. Ah, yes, Timothy,” Ra’s purrs, his tone redolent with unwelcome implications. “He was quite—special, wasn’t he? Magnificent in his true form, but most— _tempting,_ in his human form, as well. I almost wish I could have kept him and _enjoyed_ him for longer.”

Father’s growl is nearly inhuman and is closely followed by the roar of arcane magic. Bright lightning fills the sky with his fury. 

Damian can’t move. Tim was alive? He was _alive_ when he fell, and Ra’s took him? Gods, if they had just come earlier, would they have been able to save him?

He isn’t aware he’s moving until he feels his swords crashing into the bladed staff, which moves to block his blows with almost inhuman speed and grace.

He isn’t aware he’s screaming until his throat starts to hurt.

By then, it doesn’t matter. He shouldn’t have lost his temper. That damnable bladed staff manages to flick one of his swords away, and then the other is wrenched from his grip by a heavy weight. The spiked hammer. Damn it all.

The armored warrior uses the dull portion of his staff to knock Damian’s legs out from under him, putting him on his knees, and then spins it to put the blade at his throat. “Start to cast and you die.”

Tilting his head carefully to avoid slitting his own throat on the bladed staff which is now being held to it, Damian nods slightly. He tenses, searching for an opening to free himself and regain the distance so critical in fighting these enemies.

Glancing to the side, he sees the half-orc, who is staring at him with a bloody grin. “Told ya, pretty boy—you’re goin’ to the boneyard. Shoulda left when you had the chance.” Shaking her head, she turns to the armored warrior. “Think the boss wants our help?”

The armored warrior shakes his head. “He seems to have it covered.”

As if to punctuate his words, lightning fills the sky again, followed by deep rumblings as the ground shifts around the combatants. Elemental forces battle each other as the warmage and demon each try to gain the upper hand.

Ra’s is still talking, damn him. “But dragons are so useful, aren’t they? Body parts, scales, and blood are all priceless armor and potion ingredients. Yes, I got a great deal of _use_ out of young Timothy, and for a bargain. After all, _you_ threw him away.”

The noise that wrenches out of Father’s throat at those words is barely human. Damian can’t breathe. The worst part is, it’s true. Not that Father cast Tim aside—of course not. But Damian never treated him as a brother while he lived. The last words he spoke to him were cruel and cutting.

In the distance, the din of battle continues, his siblings giving their all in a battle they may not win. Damian sneers up at his captor. If he can just get that bladed staff away from his throat, he’ll have time to cast an area effect smoke spell. Even if their protective wards protect them from smoke damage, they’ll have trouble seeing through the smoke in addition to the darkness spell that hit them earlier. He should be able to roll away and regain his feet.

All he needs it to get that blade away from his throat. Or perhaps distraction is in order. “Why do you serve this master? What has he ever done that you would dedicate your life and death to his service?”

“I don’t have to answer that,” the warrior says, his mechanized voice even harsher than usual. “But _you_ —” The pressure of the blade against his throat increases slightly. “Why did you attack now? What brought you to this point? I’m simply curious, you see, what made you think you could possibly win against the League of Assassins. What did you want so badly that you came here?”

Is it Damian’s imagination, or is the hand holding the bladed staff against his throat _trembling?_

There is nothing to be gained by staying silent. He frowns as he answers,his face twisting in grief. “My brother. Ra’s killed my younger brother, and while I can never undo what has been done, I can at least slay his murderer and perhaps give his spirit some measure of peace. It’s more than I ever did for him in life, to my everlasting shame.”

The armored man recoils, seemingly shocked at Damian’s words. “What?” he whispers, the bladed staff falling away from Damian’s throat.

This is it, the moment of distraction he needs. And yet, Damian hesitates, a formless hope stuttering and growing inside him. “He was so good, you see—kind, and intelligent, and he had Father’s approval and affection from the beginning. It took me far too long to realize that Father’s love is neither limited nor earned—rather, it is given, in abundance. I was desperately fighting in a competition that didn’t exist for anyone else but me.”

The armored man inhales, a small, shocked-sounding breath. “You… cared, when your brother fell? Your father didn’t simply replace him immediately with new children—better ones, who were somehow worthy of your affection where he always fell short?”

Damian’s heart breaks. “Of course we cared. In his loss, I first felt the depth of my love for him. There’s a hole in our family even now—the little ones ask for stories about him, and we try to carry his memory forward.” 

The explosions and cacophony in the background means nothing right now. Everything rests on this masked man—this beautiful, _impossible_ hope Damian can’t help but cling to more with every sentence that passes. 

Maybe that’s why he doesn’t see the spell that hits him. He’ll never know.

All he knows is there’s a searing pain in his side, and it’s a good thing the blade isn’t at his throat anymore or he would have cut himself open when he buckled forward, folding his torso down and clutching at his ribs. “Aaaah,” he moans.

Above him, the sound of cursing is followed by the armored man dropping heavily to his knees. He reaches up and yanks off his helmet and mask, revealing Tim’s older, weary face. His bright blue eyes are alight with mixed hope and fear. “Tim,” Damian breathes, reaching for him as his wound ceases to matter.

It’s _Tim._

“Shut up, you idiot!” Tim hisses, reaching for him and patting at his side, searching for injuries. After a moment, he rocks back on his heels with an expression of relief. “It was mostly blocked by your wards and armor. I think you just felt the concussive force as the spell was blocked.”

Damian doesn’t care. “Tim! You yet live! We thought—”

“I know what you thought. Well, now, anyway. Ra’s told me you knew I was alive all this time… and didn’t care.” Tim looks down, a pained look flashing across his face.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, his eyes stinging once more. “So sorry, for failing you as a brother. I have tried to make amends in what small way I could by welcoming my other siblings and protecting them as I should have done for you—”

Tim blinks at him, his brows drawing together. “Wait, _that’s_ why you accepted them? _Because_ of me? I—” He breaks off, biting his lip. “Ra’s used to gloat about it every time Bruce adopted another child. He sent spies who would report back and describe how happy the family was, now that I was gone. It was… Well. Very believable, that things went more smoothly without me there to get in the way.”

It’s wrong. So very, very wrong. “Never,” he says in a choked voice. “I know you have no reason to forgive me or ever consider allowing me another chance to be your brother, but please—Father loves you and grieves your loss every day. Our brothers and sisters care about you deeply and deserve to know you. I…” He swallows, realization and determination locking into place like a lead weight in his chest. “Tim, if I leave—would you be willing to go home? I know you must not want to live with me again, but the others don’t deserve to be punished for my wrongs—”

Tim stares at him, his eyes wide. “I—oh gods, I can’t believe any of this is happening. I feel like I’ve been hit by a confounding spell, but I know I’m warded against that.” He stares into Damian’s eyes, gaze searching. Whatever he finds there, it seems to help him reach a decision. He holds out his hand. “Come on. B needs our help.”

Damian takes his hand and rises to his feet, not removing his eyes from his long-lost brother for even a moment.

Glancing down at their hands, Tim huffs a small laugh. It’s so familiar. “Uh, you’re going to want to let go of that. Unless you want to ride a dragon into battle?”

They stare at each other, their eyes widening as possibilities occur to both of them simultaneously. They were never close enough to try that before, but with an appropriate sticking spell… It should be possible. “May I?”

Tim grins. “Let’s do it. Shore up his wards against dragonfire, okay? And once I’m above Ra’s, cast a protective ward around the part of the battlefield they’re in so my attacks are confined to that area. I wouldn’t want to hurt the others.” With that, he releases the dire power of his full transformation, kneeling low so Damian can scramble onto his back. He murmurs a quick sticking spell, and then they’re airborne.

They circle, then zero in on where Bruce and Ra’s are still locked in combat. Damian casts several spells to protect their flagging father, and then—

Tim’s inferno looks considerably different from this side of things.

In the center of the raging fire, Ra’s sneers. “You would turn against me now, my pet? And for what? These fools cast you aside once already, broke you and threw you away—”

“Tim?” Father says, staggering at the sight of his lost son. “Oh gods—Tim, is that you? Are you okay?”

“Hey, B. Uh, can we do this later? Ra’s is still casting spells and he looks pretty pissed. Please tell me you guys have a plan, because at this point, mine is just cast inferno again, grab you and all the siblings I apparently have now in my claws, then retreat as fast and far as I possibly can to escape the League’s wrath.”

Off to the side, the half-orc woman tilts her head, eyeing them. Damian tenses, shooting Tim a concerned glance. He and this woman are clearly comrades at arms, perhaps friends. If she attacks him for what she must see as a betrayal, it will hurt him horribly. Unfortunately, Damian has no idea what he can do to help.

As it happens, he doesn’t need to do anything. The woman snorts, shaking her head. “Finally busting out on your own, huh Boss? You always were too good for this shit.” Spinning, she begins fighting off the liches that are attempting to penetrate the barrier. Damian stares, brow rising in surprise. It appears that she is throwing in her lot with Tim. 

“Pru!” Tim calls, sounding happy but concerned. “You don’t have to do this—”

The woman—Pru, apparently—throws him a wild grin and continues fighting. “Are you kidding? I could do with a change of pace. ‘Sides, you’d just get yourself killed without me to watch your back. Eejit.”

“Probably,” Tim says with a crooked grin, displaying far too many dagger-like teeth for comfort.

Bruce clears his throat. “Ah, Damian, now is probably a good moment to—”

Glancing down, Damian sees that in the distraction, his father has gotten into position within arm’s reach of Ra’s. The old demon is glaring at Pru, looking as though he’s already planning out a detailed and brutal punishment for her betrayal.

He isn’t going to get the chance.

Murmuring the arcane words under his breath so as not to give any warning, Damian uses the edge of his blade to make a small slice on the back of his left wrist. Fortunately, the magic doesn’t require a large quantity of blood to work. Unfortunately, he forgot how good Tim’s hearing is in this form.

“Damian, what the hell?” Tim hisses, clearly aware of the danger of being overheard. “Are you insane? You can’t use blood magic banishment—it sends everyone within range who shares even a drop of your blood straight to hell!”

He can’t answer, not without ruining the spell. Hopefully Tim will trust him, little reason though he has to do so. Calmly, he continues to whisper the cantrip, summoning a ball of hellfire to dance in the palm of his uninjured hand. At the critical moment, he lifts his other hand over the hellfire and allows a single drop of his blood to plummet into the flames.

In the next instant, a screaming vortex opens up in the palm of his hand.

“Shit! Oh my god, _how_ is this your plan?” Tim growls, winging swiftly away from the now rapidly growing vortex.

“Father and I modified the cantrip,” Damian says, watching in fascination and fear as the vortex grows. It doesn’t follow them. A part of him, the same part that feels he will never be worthy, can never do enough good to atone for the wrongs he has done in his youth, sags in relief. “It is not indiscriminate. The vortex will only take those within range who share my blood and whose souls already belong to hell.”

As he watches in grim satisfaction, the vortex seemingly ignores Bruce and Helena as well. It heads straight for Ra’s, who screams in shock and pain as it envelops him.

“Wow,” Tim says faintly. He hovers for a moment, keeping an eye on the steaming, screaming vortex, and then slowly descends to the barren field after it becomes clear to both of them that the vortex is now content to slowly and painfully consume its chosen victim.

“It was a calculated risk. We could not be completely sure we would be spared, but we believed we would. It was worth it to be able to destroy Ra’s and send him back to the depths of hell from whence he came.” Damian stares at the swirling, eerily glowing green vortex, watching his grandfather’s form twitch in the center of the maelstrom. As he watches, the demon sinks another inch into the depths of the vortex.

Ra’s lifts his head and sees them. “Timothy,” he says with an oily smirk. Only the underlying tension around his eyes shows that he’s in a considerable amount of pain. “Really, you would turn your back on me now? After everything I’ve done for you, all that we have _shared?”_

Something about the way he says those words makes Damian’s lip curl in disgust. At his side, he feels Tim suppress a flinch. Father growls, looking as though he half-wants to dive into the vortex to continue beating Ra’s with his bare hands.

Tim straightens. “Everything you did for me, hmm? And what, exactly, are you referring to here? The time you attacked my family, trying to steal me from them? The time I flew right into your trap and you _did_ steal me from them? Or was it the years of gaslighting, when you twisted everything to make it seem like they were glad to be rid of me and I should be _grateful_ you took me?”

Ra’s is no longer sneering. Frowning, he tries again. “Timothy, you know you are my creature now. No other has _claimed_ you as I have—”

Rolling his eyes, Tim huffs. “You’ve got that right. The dark elves are _way_ better in bed than you. I mean, it’s a pretty low bar—heck, even that ghoul general we had for a while was—”

“What?!” Father and Ra’s both thunder in concert, and it would be almost funny if it wasn’t so horrifying.

“You forced yourself on him?” Father says in a dark whisper, fell lightning crackling from his fingertips as he glares at Ra’s.

“You demeaned yourself with the _ghoul general?”_ Ra’s hisses, looking outraged. “He was a fool, entirely unworthy of your very considerable charms!”

Tim snorts. “He was also a very considerate lover, with a very large—” He breaks off at Father’s soft noise of horror, and turns to them with an apologetic expression. “Sorry about that. And no, he didn’t force me.” He makes a face. “The past few years have been… lonely. Sometimes I just wanted to feel that moment of connection with someone.” He makes a face. “Ra’s was there, it happened sometimes. Let’s just move on, okay?”

Ra’s is still sputtering about Tim having lowered himself to lie with lesser men, but no one’s paying attention to him now.

“Tim,” Father says, looking at his long-lost son with a searching, almost desperate expression. “Will you come home?”

Tim bites his lip, looking tense and hesitant. “I don’t think—”

Damian knows where the problem lies. He bows his head. “As I said earlier, I will remove myself from Wayne Manor so you can feel at ease there. I know I am the one you fear most to trust.”

Tim makes a soft, hurt-sounding noise. “You don’t have to go,” he blurts out, then hesitates. “I am, though.”

“What?” Father whispers, leaning forward as though yearning to take his boy in his arms.

“Afraid,” Tim says simply. “Of believing this could be real. Of trusting you. Of opening my heart, and giving you another chance to break it.”

Damian’s heart twists at those simple, poignant words. What can he possibly say to reassure him which would counterbalance the heavy weight of all his past cruelty and taunts?

He’s beginning to fear nothing that could be said right now would be enough.

The silence which follows is heavy, broken only by the sound of Ra’s groaning and then the boisterous approach of the others.

“The liches all froze and then turned to ash,” Helena reports exuberantly.

Dick nods. “And the demons disappeared in puffs of infernal smoke.”

“The skeletal armies lost the spell empowering them and collapsed where they stood,” Cass says, still in her skeletal visage.

“There’s nothing left to smash,” Jason complains.

“And the other generals are busy looting the treasury. They’re all planning to run off and retire now that the retirement plan isn’t die and then get reanimated as a corpse-soldier to keep serving our dark lord forever, may he rest in pieces,” Pru finishes as she saunters up with a rakish grin. She plants her spiked hammer on the ground with a solid thud.

A faint, furious-sounding scream from the direction of the vortex causes them all to turn and look. Ra’s is now nearly engulfed, only his head and shoulders visible in the center of the raging vortex. “You can’t do this! How dare you attempt to destroy everything that is mine, all I have worked for my long life—”

Casually, Damian casts a cone of silence on him and then turns back to his father, ignoring the megalomaniacal ravings of the doomed demon. “The vortex is technically located in between earth and hell. The moment Ra’s entered it—”

“All his magical ties with this world were cut off,” Father says, nodding. “Including the power that animated the liches and corpse army, and the summoning spells which anchored the lesser demons in this realm.”

Jason and Dick are both staring at Tim, wide eyed. Jason elbows Dick and whispers, “He’s awesome, isn’t he? So fucking terrifying, isn’t it great?”

Dick nods vigorously, looking at Tim with obvious hero worship. “Do you think he still likes giving kids rides on his back like Bruce said he used to? Ooh, and I always wondered about his hugs. Damian and Bruce are so stiff, but Cass says—”

Tim frowns slightly. “Cass?” He looks confused, glancing over everyone again. His gaze settles on Cass. She obligingly shifts to her human visage and his eyes widen. “Oh my gods, _Cass._ I didn’t realize—” He breaks off, shaking his head and looking heartbroken. “I know I promised you I’d come back and visit again after I gave you the toy. I broke my promise.”

She smiles. “It’s okay. Damian kept it for you.”

Tim raises stunned blue eyes to look at him. “You—but why? Why would you go to the orphanage?”

Damian shrugs helplessly. “I realized how grievously I had failed and wronged you. All I could do to atone for my error was attempt to carry on your work as best I could.”

Tim’s eyes are shining now. For the first time since they found him, Damian sees hope there, and the tentative beginnings of trust.

Dick darts forward and wraps his arms around a startled Tim. “Please come home!” he bursts out. “We miss you so much!”

Tim slowly raises his arms to wrap them around his new little brother. “I… Okay,” he says with a shaky smile and a long sigh. “Okay.”

Everyone seems to take that as a signal to move forward and embrace him. Damian ends up sandwiched between Dick and Helena, with Tim in the center, Jason and Cass on the far side of the tangle, and Father’s strong arms wrapped around them all.

“Oy! This is sweet and all, but you lot might wanna watch this. You don’t wanna miss the good part.” At Pru’s words, the group hug breaks apart and they all turn to look at the vortex, which is beginning to smoke now as it nears the fulfillment of its purpose.

As they watch in mixed horror and satisfaction, the steaming, screaming vortex sucks Ra’s al Ghul back to hell—exactly where he belongs as just recompense for all of the wicked deeds he has committed over the course of his unnaturally extended life.

“I’ll come home,” Tim says, stepping over to Pru and hauling her up against his side. “But she’s coming with us. This is Pru. We come as a set.” His tone brokers no argument.

Helena and Cass both eye Pru with thoughtful expressions and then nod in approval.

Damian eyes her with marginally less approval. She appears to sense his mistrust. Grinning, she snaps at him with her teeth, then snickers when he recoils in shock.

“Charming,” Father says, looking anything but charmed.

Tim gives Pru a fondly amused smile. “She saved my life a dozen times over the years when jealous rivals within Ra’s al Ghul’s organization tried to assassinate me.”

“Welcome to the family,” Father says, and he obviously means it.

As they catch their breath, check each other over for wounds, and begin to prepare for the triumphant journey home, Damian’s heart aches with love for the strange and wonderful people who have become his family. Here in the ruins of the place where he was raised for the first decade of his life, he can see exactly how far he has come from where he began.

Tim is standing off to the side, having slipped away from the cacophony of excited chatter. Damian moves toward him, eyeing him with concern. “Are you all right?” Perhaps he was injured and their spell scans missed it.

“It’s just… I’m different. I’m not the same person I was, the one you guys apparently told these kids stories about. I’m still not sure coming back is the best idea.”

Damian frowns and replies slowly, taking care to select each word precisely. “You are concerned you will no longer fit into the place you left behind, because you have changed?”

“Exactly,” Tim says, looking relieved. “I just… don’t want to disappoint anyone.” He shrugs with a tentative smile that slips away almost as fast as it arrives.

Huffing a laugh, Damian shakes his head. “You need not worry about that. I imagine I have changed at least as much as you have over the intervening years since we last saw each other, and my place in the family simply evolved to fit who I am now. We will do the same with you. Have no fear—it is _you_ we want back, not a memory. We have those, and they aren’t enough.”

Tim stares at him for a moment with a surprised expression, and then laughs. “You really have changed.” His smile this time is real, and remains as he gently bumps his shoulder against Damian’s. “Okay. I think I’m ready now.”

Damian smiles back, joy flooding his heart at this wonderful opportunity to finally, _finally_ be a good big brother to Tim.

“Oy! You two, the portal’s ready! Miss it and you’ll have to fly back to wherever the hell these guys are from! And trust me, pretty boy, you do _not_ want to find out how many bugs you’ll get in your bleedin’ teeth riding dragonback for hours.” Pru’s less-than-dulcet tones call him back to reality and he grimaces.

Tim snickers. “She likes you, you know.” He throws Damian a wink as he saunters away.

“Wait, what?” Damian stares after him. Surely he didn’t mean…

He glances back at Pru, who is staring at him with an expression he would normally classify as hunger. Considering what Tim just said, though… He gulps.

Well, she is a strong warrior, and loyal. He could certainly do worse.

**Author's Note:**

> Between brainstorming, writing, and doing the beta for this story, this work contains contributions from ayzengima, bewaretheboojum, nanimok, njw, rider_of_spades, shmoo92, silver_snow_77, and strawberryjei. Thanks, everyone, for all your ideas and effort in putting together this gift for Vell!
> 
> [Capes & Coffee Tim Drake discord server](https://discord.gg/bGhpCDn)  
> *  
> Writers: njw, Salazarastark  
> Beta: Ayzenigma


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